Jackson was three months into his new gig as a phlebotomist at The Mercy General Hospital, and he still hadn’t told his homeboys George and Stan what he was really doing for work. They kept asking, kept prying, but Jackson just smiled and said he was “in the make you beautiful business.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie—he did work around bodies all day.
The idea hit him when Mrs. Patterson from the morgue came in for her weekly blood work. She mentioned they had three viewings tomorrow, a grandmother and her two young granddaughters bout your age who’d passed in a car accident.
Something sparked in Jackson’s mind.
He pulled out his phone and hit the three-way call.
“Yo, what’s good, J?” George’s voice came through first.
“Hold on right quick, let the homie Stan get on here.” Jackson waited for the familiar click. “Stan, you there?”
“Yeah man, I’m here. What’s up?”
Jackson leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Man, I just talked to these three beautiful women a few minutes ago.”
“Man, what you talking about beautiful women?” George’s voice had that familiar skeptical edge.
Stan jumped in, “Spit it out, we listening.”
“I’ll tell y’all about it when I pick you little boys up, so be ready. This something you got to see.”
Twenty minutes later, Jackson pulled up to George’s apartment in his beat-up Nissan Tundra truck, bass thumping from the speakers. George hopped in the passenger seat, cologne thick enough to smell from a mile away, while Stan slid into the back.
“Alright, J, quit playing games,” George said, adjusting his chain. “Where these beautiful women at?”
Jackson backed out the driveway, trying not to laugh. “Like I said earlier, y’all got to see these women. They fine and they got pretty hair, pretty skin, and not with all the talking straight action.”
“You mean pretty everything,” George nodded approvingly. “Okay, where they at?”
“We almost there.” Jackson replied.
Stan leaned forward from the backseat. “Better not be no church ladies, man. I ain’t trying to hear no sermon about salvation tonight.”
Jackson turned into the parking lot, watching his friends’ faces in the rearview mirror.
“Why the hell you pulling into the funeral parlor?” Stan’s voice dropped a decimal or two.
“Because that’s where they at. Jackson killed the engine and hopped out.
What you mean that’s where they? Stan said.
Man stop with all the questioning and “come on”. Jackson replied.
George stayed planted in his seat. “Say man, this better not be no Elvira-looking women, bruh.”
“They in room one. You hear the music. I’m about to get the drinks.” Jackson headed toward the side entrance where Mrs. Patterson had left him a key.
“Drinks?!” George and Stan said in unison.
Jackson paused at the door. “Would y’all just go before they get lonely?”
Inside the funeral home, the air hung thick with the scent of lilies and formaldehyde. Jackson had spent his lunch break setting up his elaborate prank—repositioning the bodies in chairs behind a white curtain, rigging up a small Bluetooth speaker for some soft R&B. The three young women sat still, hands folded, eyes closed, looking almost peaceful in the dim lighting.
George and Stan approached room one, their swagger intact despite meeting women at a funeral parlor.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Stan whispered.
“Man up,” George shot back, “J said they fine, and don’t like all the talking so I’m using sign language.”
They could see the shadows through the white curtain—three feminine silhouettes seated in a row, backlit by soft lighting. The soft R&B music added some comfortability to the situation.
George cracked his knuckles. “Ladies probably heard we was coming.”
Stan put his hand over his mouth to check his breath. “Time to make an impression.”
They grabbed opposite ends of the curtain, then looked at each other with confident nod.
“Ladies,” Stan announced in a theatrical deep voice, “the men that you tell your mother about are here!”
They both yanked the curtain back in perfect synchronization and slid into the empty seats next to them.
The silence stretched for exactly three seconds.
“AHHH! What the hell?!” Stan jumped up and stumbled backward, crashing into a flower arrangement.
“Man, these chicks are……DEAD!” George’s voice sounded panicking as he scrambled toward the door. “JACKSON!”
From the hallway, Jackson’s laughter echoed through the funeral home like thunder. He appeared in the doorway, tears streaming down his face.
“Y’all should see your faces right now!”
“This ain’t funny, man!” George was pressed against the wall, hyperventilating.
Stan pointed a shaking finger at the three deceased women. “Why they sitting up like they at a strip club party and one of them looks like she’s ninety?!”
“Because,” Jackson trying to catch his breath from laughing, “I told y’all I had two beautiful women. Didn’t say they were breathing.”
“You sick, J. Real sick.” George was already heading for the exit.
“Wait, wait!” Jackson called after them. I got something to tell you. “I’m a phlebotomist! I draw blood now for a living! The beauty business—get it?”
But his friends were already halfway to the car, George fumbling with the door handle while Stan looked over his shoulder like the dead women might start chasing them.
Jackson took one last look at his handiwork, straightened the curtain, and turned off the music. Mrs. Patterson would never know the difference.
Outside, George and Stan sat in the Nissan Tundra, breathing hard.
“Three months,” George says. “Three months he’s been planning this.”
“My phone will be on ‘do not disturb’ for a few days,” Stan declared.
Jackson sat in the driver’s seat, still slightly laughing. “Come on, y’all. Can’t lie that was a good joke.”
“Drive,” George said flatly. “Before I kill you and leave you in there with your two girlfriends and their great grandma.”
As they pulled out of the funeral home parking lot, Jackson’s phone buzzed with a text message from Mrs. Patterson: Everything okay over there? Thought I heard screaming.
He texted back: All good. Just some family members paying their respects.
In the backseat, Stan was already planning his revenge. “J, you know payback’s a……., right?”
Jackson grinned looking in the rearview mirror. “Bring it on. But admit it—that was legendary.”
Even George cracked a smile. “Man, I hate you. But you got that one.”
“Pretty good?” Jackson laughed. “That was beautiful. Just like I promised.”
To be continued………..